


Chupada

by canis_m



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: And now you get to lie in it, Hannibal you made your bed, Lollipops, M/M, Oral Sex, Playing Doctor, Post-Season/Series 03, Roleplay, Sexual Dysfunction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:01:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6498211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_m/pseuds/canis_m
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Will play doctor. It's not all fun and games. Only partly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Chupada

Will waited in the examination room, hands in his pockets, declining to sit. The room itself wasn't unpleasant, its stucco walls a creamy gold too warm to be institutional. On one wall hung Cézanne's _Léda au cygne,_ in which the swan looked more like a duck and the Leda seemed unimpressed with its efforts to bite her hand. So much for the prowess of Zeus.

In the center of the room stood an honest-to-God examination table, if a rustic notion of one: hardwood legs, barely adjustable back, cushions covered in blue vinyl. On a side table sat dispensers of hand sanitizer and lotion, a box of tissues, jars of cotton pads and swabs. A small ceramic vase held a sprig of ixora. A swivel chair upholstered in pale synthetic fabric stood beside the table, its back to the wall.

There was a knock at the door before it swung open. The doctor entered, sporting a lab coat over his dress shirt and crisp beige slacks. A stethoscope hung around his neck. His expression was mild and genial. The white coat read _H. Lecter_ in neat embroidery on the lapel. 

"Good afternoon, Will."

Will managed to keep a straight face, if only just. 

"Doctor," he said.

"How are you getting on these days? Any problems with the physical therapy?"

"No, that seems to be going well. My range of motion's getting better. The swimming seems to help. A lot."

"I thought it might." A smile deepened the creases around the doctor's eyes. "I'm an avid swimmer myself."

"You don't say."

"If there are no troubles on that end, what brings you in today?"

"I'm, uh. Having some issues with." Will turned away from him, toward the table, on the pretext of fiddling with the ixora in its vase. "I think 'erectile dysfunction' would be the clinical term."

"Well, we can't have that," said Dr. Lecter, managing to sound grave and reassuring both at once. "When did you first notice a difficulty?" 

"Recently. The past few weeks. Before that I was still on painkillers, from--" Will gestured vaguely at the most recent additions to his array of scars. "The issue didn't really come up."

"And now it's not coming up as you would like, I take it. Any associated pain?"

Only the pain of insufferable punning. "Not physical, no."

Dr. Lecter tipped his head in acknowledgment. "It's not easy on the masculine ego, but there's no need to agonize. Many men experience some form of this at some point in their lives. Do you find the difficulty to be consistent? Intermittent?"

"Inconsistent."

"You're able to achieve and maintain an erection on some occasions?"

Will nodded.

"Any sense of a pattern?"

"When I jerk off, it's usually okay. I can keep it up and get off maybe--" Will shrugged with one shoulder. "Eighty percent of the time. With my partner, not so much."

"Tell me about your relationship with your partner."

Will raised his eyebrows. "He's a medical professional. Not practicing right now in any official capacity." Emphasis on _official._ The doctor's expression remained smoothly bland. "We've known each other a while. The sexual component of our relationship is new." Will paused. "Actually, that's probably not true. The sexual aspects are...newly overt. We've had kind of an alarming history. The most impressive of my scars are his handiwork." He paused again, conscious of the absurdity of explaining all this to his current listener. "It's complicated."

"I see. Have you been able to discuss your current situation with him?"

"He encouraged me to come to you."

The doctor nodded as if all this fell within the realm of perfect normalcy. "Well, Will, if you were hoping I'd write a scrip for Viagra and send you on your way, I'm sorry to disappoint. It sounds as if the trouble may be more psychological than physical."

"Gosh," said Will.

"Stress, anxiety, post-traumatic conditions--any of these can affect sexual function. Traumatic injury can increase the likelihood of dysfunction for many months after the event, even when the sexual organs themselves are unaffected. But we'd better have a look at the equipment, just to be sure."

Will had expected this, but still he fidgeted. "Should I--put on a gown?"

"If you'd be more comfortable, you may. Or you may simply remove your shorts."

In fact they were swim trunks, as Hannibal was well aware, but Hannibal had never struggled with maintaining fictions. As the doctor busied himself at the side table, or pretended to, Will sloughed off his sandals. He undid the drawstring of his trunks, then opened the fly and let them drop.

Turning, the doctor pulled on a pair of nitrile gloves. "It's simpler for you to remain standing, but you may lie on the table if you prefer."

"I'll stand," said Will. He knew he was flushing, exposed and bare-assed in only his t-shirt. Never mind that Hannibal had seen him naked before. "Sorry, I...tend to get nervous about...procedures. Some bad experiences in the past."

"I'm sorry to hear it. I'm only going to examine you externally, but should you feel any discomfort, please let me know." Hannibal wheeled the swivel chair into position directly in front of Will and sat. "Whoever your previous physician was, I can assure you, I'm not so ham-fisted. The comfort of my patients is important to me."

Will greeted this stream of grade-A bullshit with the stare it deserved, but let it slide. He lifted his chin and stood still. 

Hannibal first examined him visually, then took him in hand and felt along the shaft. He palpated Will's testicles gently. Checked for hernia, asked Will to cough. Both the touches and the attention remained wholly clinical. 

Will didn't expect him to find anything. He'd done his homework before agreeing to this appointment, had read about vets with PTSD, men who creamed their pants while gunning down combatants on the battlefield only to remain soft in bed with their partners back at home. He remembered how patient Molly had been with him, in their first months together, how her good humor had rescued them on more than one occasion. Remembered the more recent night, not a week ago, with Hannibal, when Will had thought he'd been doing so well: sitting on the chaise longue, Hannibal kissing his nape, mouthing the rim of his ear. New sensations, or at least new between the two of them, too unencumbered to have memories in tow, until Hannibal's hand had brushed along Will's belly, over the scar. 

Inadvertent, maybe, though with Hannibal he could never be sure. Either way, the flash had come, like an unasked-for swing of the pendulum, flinging Will backwards in time. Before it could swing again he was out of Hannibal's lap and halfway across the patio. Shuddering, heaving. Desire draining. Not gone, because he was swimming in it, near to drowning--but it wasn't inside him. It had bled out all over the floor.

Hannibal had tried to teach him plenty of things, in the time that they'd known each other. Will had learned plenty, if not always what Hannibal thought was being taught. It turned out Will's body, too, had learned. And learned. And rarely forgot.

He closed his eyes.

"The good news is, everything seems to be in order," Hannibal was saying. "I don't see any cause for concern."

Will's hands curled at his sides, clenched around their own emptiness. He kept his eyes closed.

"That leaves us with psychological causes to consider. As it happens, I have some training in psychiatry, so I can hope to be of some help."

"Lucky me," said Will, very low.

There was a pause. 

"Shall I give you a moment before we continue?" Then, after a hesitation, more quietly, "Would you like me to leave the room?"

Will's throat worked as he swallowed. "I could use a minute, yeah."

Silence, acquiescence. The swivel chair rolling across the tile. Door sounds: open and shut. 

He was alone.

Will exhaled slowly. He slumped onto the exam table, turning to face the wall. He stared at the painting of Leda and her duck. He preferred this one to the rest of Hannibal's swan-on-girl porn collection, liked the awkward flopping of the duck's wings, the sheer depths of _bitch, please_ in Leda's face. It wasn't the first time this duck had pulled some shit with her, that much seemed clear. It probably wouldn't be the last.

He rubbed his eyes and blinked up at the stucco ceiling. He'd walked away, after the cock-up with Hannibal on the patio, had taken himself for a long walk on the beach. When he'd returned to the house hours later, after dark, Hannibal had been so relieved at the bare fact of his return--transparently so--that he hadn't pressed Will to discuss anything. Not that night.

Now here they were. Will hadn't wanted to go to another doctor, even if Hannibal would've let him go. He'd already Googled as much as he could. The rest was between the two of them.

Sagging, he bent to pick up his swim trunks from the floor. He felt steadier when he was clothed again, and wondered how long it would take Hannibal to get over being ejected from the room. Ignoring the examination table in favor of the swivel chair, he flopped down with enough momentum to make the chair bump the wall.

There was a muted knock at the door, a muffled "May I come in?"

This time Hannibal waited for Will's answer before entering. He seemed once again the attentive physician, earnest and benign. He carried a small basket in one hand.

"Typically I reserve these for my younger patients," he said, "but I thought they might not go amiss."

He held out the basket, and Will stared at the heap of Chupa Chups: assorted flavors, still in their wrappers. Ordinary lollipops, the kind you could buy at any corner store. Probably not made of people. His brain spun on the idea of Hannibal going out to buy lollipops for his fake office, for imaginary patients other than Will. For scared children who would snuffle back tears and suck on their treat when the ordeal was over. Verisimilitude. 

Eyes on Hannibal, Will took one from the basket and unwrapped it. He stuck it into his mouth. Cherry flavor bloomed across his tongue. He had to wedge the lollipop into his left cheek; even there it pulled at the scar tissue on the other side, distending. 

Hannibal set the basket on the table, then turned to lean his weight against the table's edge. He didn't take a lollipop for himself. "I have a few more questions to ask, if I may."

"Ro ahead," said Will, who was not above talking with his mouth full.

"When you masturbate to orgasm, what do you think about?"

"I hry not to hink arout anyhing."

A slow blink from Hannibal. "Nothing? No erotic fantasies?"

Will drew out the lollipop with a slurp. His tongue would be turning bright red. Lips and teeth, too. Maybe that was the idea, though the color would be too cartoonish to pass for blood, even allowing for willing suspension of disbelief. 

"The less I think, the easier it gets," he said.

"That sounds more like meditation than masturbation."

"Then I guess I'm right on track for becoming a monk."

"What if you were to think about your partner?" asked Hannibal. Carefully neutral. "Would that disrupt your meditation?"

"Sometimes I do," said Will. The ease of the admission surprised him. He rotated the lollipop in one hand, fiddled with the wrapper in the other. Smoothed it flat across the plane of his thigh. "I think about his voice. His hands. They're bigger than mine, they're...comprehensive." He didn't look at Hannibal. "I think about how that would feel."

"His hands instead of yours. How does it feel when you imagine it?"

"Good," said Will, "right up until it's not. When I remember other things." He did look at Hannibal then, straight into his eyes. "Sometimes I manage not to remember." 

In the silence that followed Will returned the lollipop to its wrapper and laid it on the table. Maybe he'd lost his taste for mass-market sugar. Ruined by a steady supply of nuanced homemade desserts.

"As your doctor, Will, I'm obliged to ask. Do you feel threatened by your partner?"

Will stared. "Excuse me?"

"You indicated there's been a history of violent behavior. Do you believe your partner is a threat to you now?"

He nearly launched himself up from the chair. "Is this a trick question?" he asked, intonation and disbelief rising as one.

"No."

"Okay. I believe he doesn't intend to _damage me,_ " said Will, enunciating sharply, "right now or in the immediate future. If you're concerned about the possibility of further abuse, maybe you should talk to him."

"Perhaps I will." 

Hannibal unlooped the stethoscope from around his neck, consigning it to the table. He removed his lab coat, folded it in half lengthwise, then folded it again. 

"While a perceived threat of danger can be enlivening in some instances, what you're facing now will be more easily addressed from a position of safety, with a partner whom you trust."

Bending, Hannibal arranged the folded lab coat on the floor in front of Will's chair. Will stared at it and him blankly, uncomprehending, until Hannibal knelt, using the coat to cushion his knees against the tile. He looked up at Will from between Will's legs.

"This isn't a treatment I offer to other patients, but I believe it may be of some benefit in your case." He glanced meaningfully at Will's swim trunks. "If you would?"

"Oh, God." 

They were doing this, apparently. Will wavered for a few seconds, then a few seconds more. Then he fumbled with the drawstring. Apparently he was on board with making the attempt. He got the trunks open, shoved them down past the jut of his hips.

"Performance anxiety is counter-productive," added Hannibal, still in that tone of maddening calm, "so I'd advise you not to concern yourself with reaching orgasm. Just allow yourself to experience sensations as they come. Tell me if there's any discomfort." 

"Okay," said Will, trying to keep air in his lungs. Hannibal leaned.

"Close your eyes. Don't think about anything." 

_Don't think about me, Will._

Will squeezed his eyes shut. Tension gripped him, but it was all in his limbs and heart and throat, not in his dick, until Hannibal's lips brushed the head. 

Wet heat enclosed him. Hannibal didn't put his hands on Will, on his cock or anywhere else, only kept the head in his mouth and held it warmly, letting it bump his palate as the shaft began to engorge. A feeble sound escaped Will. He spread his legs further open, curled his palms around the seat of the chair. 

It felt good. But he'd figured Hannibal would be good at this. Molly had been good at it, too. He needed to not think of Molly. He needed to not think at all.

After a minute of letting him harden, Hannibal began to suck. At first it was too much, too direct an assault, and Will wanted to put a stop to it, to either yank himself out or press deep. He could fuck Hannibal's mouth if he wanted, he knew. Shove his cock down Hannibal's throat and make him take it, make him gag. Maybe there'd been a time when he had wanted that, or would have, had it occurred to him to dream it in his waking state--when the thought of it would've steeled him, made him harder. Maybe there would be a time like that. 

Right now the thought made his gorge rise. He could barely stand to crack an eyelid to look at Hannibal, to witness the strained wistfulness in Hannibal's face. He could see it in his mind's eye too clearly. But the thought of pretending that this wasn't Hannibal--that it was someone else, anyone, an anonymous wet hole--made his guts go just as cold. 

His erection grew uncertain. The touch of a finger made him twitch, mostly with surprise; Hannibal was being so careful not to use his hands or voice. No inescapable cues of identity. The finger was joined by a second; they slid down the length of Will's shaft, gathering sweat and musk. Stroking into the curls of hair at the base. The touch withdrew, and then Will smelled and felt the same fingers brought to his nose, above his upper lip, below his nostrils. He understood the intent at once: the scent of his own arousal, a base encouragement. Entry to a feedback loop. 

He inhaled. It sent a jolt to his brainstem, a charge down the conduit of his nerves. With a shudder Will caught Hannibal's wrist and held it, breathing in and out until his breath grew short. He let go, let his head fall back to the wall with a thump. A groan dragged out of him, pulled up from the pit of his throat like a sunken chest dredged from the sea floor. He felt Hannibal's jaw twitch, heard a terse exhalation.

He let his hand falter its way to the top of Hannibal's head. Not to push, not grabbing, just stroking. Reassuring one or both of them. Touching the flat, smooth sweep of his hair.

"Good," he croaked, "'s good, don't--"

Stop, he'd meant to say, just as Hannibal set to work in earnest, setting a rhythm, taking him deeper in. Will throbbed. He needed to move. He didn't want to choke Hannibal but he couldn't keep still, so he shifted his hips, let them grind in little circles, needy and tight. He was sinking in the chair, trying to plant his feet more firmly, when one of his heels slipped on the tile. 

The chair slipped with it, rolling sideways. For a second the motion pulled Will out of Hannibal's mouth. Will's eyes flew open in time to catch Hannibal's look of dire indignation. Oh shit, he thought--the chair was in for it. The chair was going to die. It shouldn't have been funny but Will laughed aloud, too loud for the small confines of the room. Hannibal braced his hands on the seat, between Will's spread legs, and shoved the chair firmly against the wall.

"Will." His voice rasped. "There's no need to be delicate. Take what you--"

"No," said Will, "I'm good, it's good. You're making it good." He reached for Hannibal's face, brushed the hair back around one of his ears. "I can do whatever I want?"

"Anything."

"So no hurting. Is what I want." His voice dropped to barely a murmur. "Keep going?"

Hannibal stared at him, gaze gone abstracted and dark. Then he lowered his head and pressed his face into Will, his mouth and nose and chin, rubbing blindly down Will's length to the root of his cock. For a minute he breathed there, big unsteady breaths that made his shoulders quake. He nuzzled, mouthing pubic hair, nosed downward and brushed his lips to Will's balls. Will thought of his clinical touch before, during the examination, and could have laughed again but didn't dare. 

"Your hands," he murmured, "put your hands on me, come on," and Hannibal did, bracing the chair in place with one forearm, wrapping his right hand around the base of Will's shaft. It felt the way Will had known it would. Hannibal tongued under the glans, licked beads of pre-cum from the slit. Then he sucked the entire head back into his mouth.

It didn't take long after that. When Will's eyes shuttered again it wasn't on purpose, out of trying not to see, but because all his controls were failing. He clutched at the seat of the chair. He couldn't get enough air to sustain him. When Hannibal made a low sound around him, he whimpered a response, and jerked and spilled down Hannibal's throat.

The pleasure flooded everything, swept every thought from his head.

Hannibal drank him down, then sat back on his haunches, panting. His erection tented the front of his pants. He stared at Will, raised an unsteady hand to swipe his knuckles over his own lips. Will might have expected self-congratulation, or at least satisfaction, but the look on Hannibal's face was disconcerted, raw and open, stark with relief. As if he hadn't trusted at all that Will would come for him. 

That made two of them. Feeling melted, heavy with lethargy and sweetness in equal parts, Will sank out of the chair onto Hannibal's lap.

"Winston," he muttered. He really needed to pick a different word, if they were going make a habit of this, because that one only brought the hot threat of tears to his eyes, just when he'd thought himself past it. He could switch to _encephalitis,_ maybe. Wouldn't Hannibal love that. He'd probably try to veto on the grounds that it might come up in regular conversation.

Hannibal had gone still. He seemed to be trying his best to avoid touching Will, insofar as that was possible with Will drooping over him like one of Dali's clocks. 

"I'm not entirely sure what I'm meant to stop doing," he said.

"Nothing. You're fine. I just wanted to call it." Pull the curtain, drape the sheet over the body, turn out the lights. 

"I see," said Hannibal, in a tone that suggested he didn't. 

Taking pity, Will propped his chin over Hannibal's shoulder. "It's okay. You can hug me, Hannibal. Right now you probably should." 

Hannibal's hands came up slowly, fitting themselves against Will's lower back. Will sighed, and Hannibal clutched at him suddenly with a noise that might have been confounded pleasure. 

"Where'd you get the table?" Will asked, when the flotsam in his mind started to resettle.

"I ordered it online. And you needn't worry about anyone tracing it. It was one of the cheaper models." Will felt Hannibal's head turn, could picture his look of disgruntled scrutiny. "It could be used as a massage table. Better suited for that."

"What makes you think I won't want to pay the doctor another visit?"

He'd murmured it into Hannibal's ear. Hannibal drew breath and pulled back, trying for eye contact. Trying to get a handle on Will, as he liked to try to do.

Will put an end to that by kissing him. Hannibal made another disheveled sound and palmed up and down Will's back. 

When they broke off, Hannibal was breathless again. "While I'd hate to disabuse you of any lingering enthusiasm, not every idea I propose has equal merit."

"I know that," said Will. "Do _you_ know that?"

"I've been making a study."

"I thought the treatment went fine." 

"It seemed touch and go for a time, from my perspective."

Touch, thought Will, not go. He tried to stifle a yawn and failed to. "Could've been worse. Could've been a lot worse. I'm not saying I couldn't use a drink, though."

"I'll open a bottle. Something bubbly. If you'll allow me to get up from the floor."

"In honor of the popping of my cork?" Will wound his arms more purposefully around Hannibal's neck and ground down against him. "You sure you want me to let you up? You could probably get away with a thing or two right now."

"Will. I don't want to get away with things. I don't want to get away."

"You want to see what we can do about your 'difficulty'?"

"Mine is not difficult," said Hannibal, and in short order he proved it to be true.


End file.
